


Jet Pack Blues

by Queerly_beloved



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-20
Updated: 2015-07-20
Packaged: 2018-04-10 05:42:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4379465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Queerly_beloved/pseuds/Queerly_beloved
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a johnlock fanfic based off the fall out boy song Jet Pack Blues</p>
            </blockquote>





	Jet Pack Blues

AN: Hey guys! So this is a Johnlock fanfic based off the song Jet Pack Blues by Fall Out Boy. If you haven't heard it yet, you definitely should find the time to listen to this song. Anyway, I hope you like it and don't die of feels overload. Enjoy! :)  
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I got those jet pack blues Just like Judy The kind that makes June feel like September. I'm the last one that you'll ever remember.

Sherlock sat in the back of the cab, watching the city lights go by. His mind, usually an organized, factual machine was a complete mess. Maybe it was the Molotov cocktail of about half a dozen different drugs running through his veins. Or perhaps it was something else- someone else. 

And I'm trying to find my peace of mind Behind these two-way highway lines When the city goes silent

Every time sherlock closed his eyes, or even blinked, he saw it. The drunken anger in John's eyes, the broken snarl on his usually kind face, the type of kind that refused to kill a spider. The type of kind that would bring home a kitten so it didn't have to sleep in the rain. The look alone was enough to freeze his heart solid. Then he spoke the two words that alone would shatter his world into a million pieces.  
"I'm leaving."

The ringing in my ears gets violent.

The cab pulled to a stop just as the light rain that had begun to fall became a downpour. Sherlock payed the cabbie and stepped out of the cab. He popped the collar of his long black trench coat up against the rain as he trudged through the puddles on the sidewalk. He hesitated at the bottom of the steps and everything that had happened three nights prior came flooding back.  
Sherlock was laying on the couch, waiting up for John who was no doubt at a bar. He'd been getting worse over the last few months. First it was just the occasional nightmare. John would wake up in the middle of the night terrified and convinced he was still in Afghanistan. But he would just crawl into bed with sherlock and sherlock would hold john until he fell asleep, which he always did- at least at first. Pretty soon the nightmares became a nightly occurrence. John would wake up and crawl into Sherlocks bed and just lie awake the rest of the night. Soon after he just stopped coming into Sherlocks bed. He stopped sleeping and instead would spend the night drowning his blood in alcohol. The only upside of this was if he got drunk enough, he would pass out and finally be able to get some sleep. John was never much of a drinker, to the point that him and sherlock would have to share a glass of wine, or champagne, or scotch. Whatever he could get away with drinking without getting drunk.

Remember how we used to split a drink? It never mattered what it was- I think. Our hands were just that close.

But now? John could drink two entire bottles and barely feel a thing

The sweetness never lasted, no

It was nearly 3 a.m. when john stumbled through the door of 221B Baker Street, completely shitfaced and hardly conscious. "John!" Sherlock yelled. He jumped up from the couch and grabbed johns shoulders as he collapsed, his eyes rolling back into his head. Sherlock shook Johns shoulders and John steadied somewhat. At least to the point where he was able to push Sherlock away. "Get away from me, you freak!" John slurred. Sherlock froze and stared at John, who was now vomiting on the carpet. He wiped his mouth with a shaking hand and used the other to push himself up. John stared at him, his eyes drunk and angry. But no degree of drink could ever fully mask the hurt in Johns eyes. "I'm leaving" John mumbled. With that, he stumbled out the door, leaving the smell of stale drink and a very broken sherlock.  
It hit sherlock without warning, and suddenly he knew he had to do this. So, one by one he climbed the stairs until he got to the door. Hands shaking slightly he knocked three times.

She's in a long black coat tonight. Waiting for me in the downpour outside.

He heard footsteps and a lamp flicked on in the hallway. He heard the sound of the dead bolt turning and suddenly he was face to face with- 'that's not my john' was all Sherlocks mind registered. John was wearing a beer stained tee shirt and he was unshaven. "WHAT DO YOU WANT" John snarled. Then he stopped and stared at sherlock. A flicker of recognition crossed his face and he went to slam the door. Sherlock, knowing what was about to happen, threw his arm out to stop it. "John-" sherlock said, unable to keep the pleading out of his voice, "please. Come home." John smirked. "A place where a faggot like you lives will never be home," he spat and slammed the door.

She's singing baby come home in a melody of tears while the rhythm of the rain keeps time.

The sound of the slamming door echoed in Sherlocks ears as the wind blew his billowing black coat, tossing his raven curls, and drying the tears he hasn't realized he'd been crying.

I REMEBER!

Sherlock turned and walked down the steps. He stopped and stared at the busy London street. Cars were rushing by, full of people- happy people. Suddenly it seemed so unfair that these people were happy, when Sherlocks world was crumbling out from under him. Sherlock felt anger fill his chest. No, not anger- rage! And threw his rage blinded senses, he realized that there was only one thing he really wanted-  
Revenge.

Baby, come home. Baby come home. Baby, come home. Baby, come home.

So without so much as a thought or a glance at the closed door, he started walking. 'That door won't be opening anytime soon' sherlock thought. He walked to the edge of the road and stopped.

Did you ever love her? Do you know? Or did you never want to be alone?

He closed his eyes and pictured john before. Before the drinking, and nightmares, before that john had died and was replaced by the monster that would never be HIS john. He held this image in his mind. Eyes still closed focusing on the image, he whispered, 'john, baby I'm sorry. Don't hate me for what I'm about to do.' He held on to the picture for a moment, savoring the warmth that always seemed to fill his empty heart, and opened his eyes, letting it slip away. When it was fully gone, he didn't even hesitate before sprinting into the incoming traffic. He made it 5 paces before he was hit. 

Baby, come home.

As he lay there on the asphalt, body broken and barely conscious, he formed one clear thought. If his old john really had died, he would see him again. He clung to that one, final thought until he drew his last breath.

Baby, come home


End file.
